Promises and Prodigal Sons
“You alright, mister?” The cabbie eyed him suspiciously. He’d refused the offer of the elegant limo shuttle in the knowledge that showing up at ‘el Vee’s’ docking berth in such a conveyance would inspire a good many unnecessary questions. And so, a quick hop back into the city returned him to the hospital’s waiting taxi line. “Ah’m right as tha mail,” Dorian replied with a mild slur to match his somewhat exaggerated movements. Once his ident touched the payment scanner, the driver’s curiosity evaporated. “Where to?” “Spacer docks. Berth twenty-seven, please.” “Catchin’ a boat?” “That’s tha rumour.” He leaned back in the seat, eyes cast upon the gleaming architecture as the taxi lurched off its’ skids. “Where you from?” “Berth twenty-seven,” his reply droll. Oh hell, Adler thought.He’s a talker. The cabbie wouldn’t be shaken off. “That accent. I know accents. Hera, right?” “Correct, sir.” “I was there,” he prattled on as the cab turned through an intersection. “In the war. You fight in the war?” “No.” The cabbie swerved around slower traffic, nosing the vehicle into seemingly impossible crevasses in the building urban gridlock. “You didn’t miss a gorram thing, friend,” he said. “What we done to Hera..weren’t no call for that. I don’t know your politics, so stop me if I’m pissin’ you off.” “Purple or brown is immaterial,” Adler replied. “They all bleed red.” That remark bought him almost two full minutes’ blessed silence. But, as expected, the driver couldn’t just maintain that peace. “What’d you say you do?” “Don’t believe Ah did,” he replied in a milder tone. “But no matter. Ah’m a medic on a boat.” This launched the cabbie’s monologue in a whole new direction. As he railed about ‘spacers crashing in the heart of town…didja hear about that?’ Dorian’s thoughts sidestepped into the growing list of challenges upon his plate. From Dr. Lao to Marisol to his taking Russokova on from the suddenly unmasked faces of the Network, he now shouldered the weight of a good many promises…all of which required the lynchpin of agreement by the captain and his opinionated proxy. Riley Thorne had proven herself the toughest of nuts to crack, zigging when she should zag, frequently the contrarian. The role was made all the more inexplicable by the strays she chose to bring aboard. The big Russian with a kidnapped Fed soldier in a crate should’ve raised questions. And of course, the faux god salesman’s presence would’ve cemented a judgment, were this any other boat. But this was Lunar Veil. And for all her confounding behaviors, Riley had kicked the spurs in hard to get him to a proper hospital. The cab glided into the dockyards. Valentine was an active port, a nonstop hive of activity. Cargo haulers of all sizes moved about or waited in queue for delivery or pickup among the ranks of vessels. Ahead, a battered yellow loader blocked the path as it scooped heavily laden pallets from a flatbed. “This is fine,” Dorian told the driver. “Ah can walk tha rest of tha way.” After settling the fare, he stepped onto the tarmac. The temperature outside was still quite agreeable, with a fresh breeze and the local sun warm upon his shoulders. Dorian picked his careful way among the deckhands and longshoremen who moved their crates and pallets. It seemed that everywhere he looked, trade was brisk. Except for Lunar Veil. The Firefly sat in forlorn silence, a quiet beggar for commerce. Her cargo bay ramp hung open, revealing equal inactivity within to that without. At the foot of the ramp was a chair and the customary sign. The trademark scowl and folded arms of its’ occupant were enough to ward off any potential customer. Dorian couldn’t help but smile at the scene. “Why, Lieutenant Riley,” he grinned beneath the eye patch as he moved toward her. “You’re a sight fah a sore eye.”